


Is This a Date?

by LadyAJ_13



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: First Dates, First Kiss, M/M, Pre-Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., Pre-Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-01-14 04:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1253074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Clint just has to get out of SHIELD. He likes it, don’t get him wrong – they took a chance on him when he was, to all intents and purposes, a criminal – but working, eating and sleeping all in one building takes his toll. Normally he’ll go hang out in a park or wander the streets. Today, though, it’s raining and Phil has invited him round to his apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is This a Date?

Sometimes Clint just has to get out of SHIELD. He likes it, don’t get him wrong – they took a chance on him when he was, to all intents and purposes, a criminal – but working, eating and sleeping all in one building takes his toll. Normally he’ll go hang out in a park or wander the streets. Today, though, it’s raining and Phil has invited him round to his apartment.

Phil hasn’t lived on base since about six months after he joined SHIELD, but you wouldn’t know it to look at his apartment. It’s decorated nicely and it’s clean, but there are no homey touches. There’s also no food in the refrigerator.

“I think I’ve got some beer somewhere,” mutters Phil as he paws through the cupboards. “It won’t be chilled but we could always throw it in the freezer for ten minutes.”

“Sounds good,” Clint puts his hands in his pockets and stands awkwardly in the kitchen doorway. It’s a proper New York apartment, meaning there’s no room for more than one person to be in the kitchen at once. “I’m pretty hungry though… is there a diner or something around here?” He doesn’t really want to leave the flat before he’s had a chance to poke around and get to know his handler ‘off-duty’, but if he doesn’t get some food soon his stomach will start audibly rumbling and that’s going to be embarrassing.

Phil emerges from a low cupboard (Clint had not, in any way, been appreciating the view) with two dusty bottles of beer. “There’s a pizza place just round the corner.” He grins ruefully; “considering I’m not 100% sure whether this beer’s gone off, it might be safer to go there.”

Clint grins and throws Phil’s suit jacket at him. “Come on then; I’m paying.”

 

\--

The pizza place is not really what Clint had been expecting. It’s not a dive, open all hours with a production line of pizza slices for drunken and/or insomniac customers. It’s also not a family affair, with bawling babies and children running around the chairs. It’s… kind of classy. The lights are dim, and there are candles (as yet unlit) and wine glasses on each table.

“Table for two, please,” asks Phil, and the waitress shows them into a small booth in one corner. Phil automatically sits so he can see the rest of the room and Clint lets him. If he can trust anyone to have his back (literally) it’s his handler.

They pore over the menus in silence for a couple of minutes. In addition to the pizza, there are pasta dishes and other Italian classics. “The lasagne here is good,” says Phil. “And the ravioli, if that’s your kind of thing. I like their pizzas best, though; they do them the proper way, throwing the dough up in the air and everything.”

They can’t see the kitchen from where they’re sat, but from the delicious smells permeating the restaurant, it must be open to the room.

“Have you ever tried it?” asks Clint.

“Tried what?” Phil’s still looking down, but Clint can see out of the corner of his eye a couple whispering a few tables over. By the glances their way, him and Phil are the subject of conversation. It’s probably harmless, but a life spent as a spy means any unexpected attention makes him twitchy. He tries to look natural and carry on the conversation.

“Making pizza.”

“God no,” Phil laughs. “I’m no cook – you saw my kitchen. I’m ashamed to say I’m a forty year old man who still relies on the work canteen and take out to keep me fed.”

Their waitress reappears then and they order, asking for white wine and water for the table. As she moves away to clear the plates of a group of friends a few feet away, Phil catches Clint’s gaze.

“Relax,” he says. “The couple are my next door neighbours and have been thoroughly vetted by SHIELD. They’re just interested because they never see me with anyone.” He reaches across and lays his hand briefly over Clint’s. “I should have known this would be their date night. We could go, if you want?”

“No,” Clint rushes to reassure him. “I just wasn’t sure why they were so interested.”

“And instead of thinking they might be having what is, unfortunately, still a common reaction to two men eating dinner together, you assumed they were Hydra spies.”

It sounds ridiculous when he comes right out and says it like that. “It sounds ridiculous when you say it like that.”

Phil shrugs. “Hazard of the job, I guess. And you spend too much time in headquarters, surrounded by it twenty four-seven.”

“You think I should move out?” Clint fiddles with the stem of his wineglass.

“If you want to,” replies Phil mildly. “But I actually meant any time you need a break – just to get out for a bit – well, my flat’s always there.”

Clint ducks his head to hide his smile. When it’s a bit less beaming and more grateful, he looks up again. “That would be good,” he agrees, just as the waitress drops off their drinks.

 

\--

It’s getting late by the time they leave the restaurant. Most of the tables had emptied, tired waitresses stripping them down and moving much slower now the bustle was over. They’d lingered over dessert, then coffee, but finally paid their bill (with a generous tip for the waitress who’d been eyeing their table for the last half an hour) and left.

It’s chilly outside after the warm fug of the restaurant, and they walk quickly back to Phil’s apartment, stopping outside.

Clint shifts from one foot to the other while Phil searches for his keys. Eventually he gets the door open, and as he’s about to disappear inside, Clint unsticks his mouth.

“So, was this a date?” he asks roughly, hands jammed in his pockets. It had _felt_ like a date. Phil looks down, busies his hands with putting his keys away.

“If you want it to be,” he answers. “If not,” he adds in a rush,” it was just two friends having dinner because one of them forgets to go grocery shopping.”

Clint blushes, then curses himself – he’s better than this. Cooler than this. He’s a goddam spy, for heaven’s sake. “I want it to be,” he manages.

“Do you want to come in for a bit?”

Yes, yes he does. Of course he does. “I can’t,” he forces out, regretfully. “I’m heading out with Hill on that Guatemala mission at 0500 hours.” He really should get some shut-eye first. Strange how it doesn’t seem so important when stood on the steps of Phil Coulson’s apartment block.

Phil nods, looking anywhere but at Clint, and it’s that which gives him the courage. “I really want to, Phil.” Phil smiles, and Clint lets himself beam back at him, before realising that they’re both just stood in the doorway of Phil’s apartment complex grinning like idiots. “I should go, though,” he adds, apologetically.

“The job comes first,” agrees Phil. It’s the way with SHIELD agents; with both of them in the organisation, no doubt it will be even worse. “But before you do go – how about you kiss me goodnight, like a highschooler on a first date?”

He can do one better than that. Given permission, instead of an awkward teenage peck he holds Phil's head in his hands and slowly moves in. The kiss is slow but deep, spreading warmth throughout his body. It's not going anywhere, but it feels like a kiss that is; more of a bedroom-based promise than goodnight-on-the-doorstep. He pulls back with some difficulty. Phil's hands are clutching at his back and they're pressed together from shoulder to hip.

“I'll be back in three days,” Clint says, his voice gruff.

Phil looks slightly dazed; a good look for him, Clint decides. He'll have to put it there more often. “Right,” Phil clears his throat, the grip on Clint's shoulder blades softening slightly before falling away. He steps back and Clint can feel his absence. It's not just the night air that's causing the chill. “Friday, 1900 hours, then,” he adds.

Clint grins. “It's a date.”


End file.
